


Now I Only Waste It Dreaming Of You

by AcidPaxel



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: FOB, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mild Language, Pete definitely NOT being crazy, Petetrick - Freeform, Some angst, voices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:37:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2271726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcidPaxel/pseuds/AcidPaxel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete is hearing voices in his head. Well, one voice. He calls it Patrick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now I Only Waste It Dreaming Of You

**Author's Note:**

> Title credit to Of All The Gin Joints In The World by Fall Out Boy. This fic is super dumb but I had a lot of fun writing it.  
> So here. Have my idea baby.  
> -A.P.

            Pete was definitely _not_ crazy. I mean, yeah, okay, he heard a voice in his head named Patrick who talked to on a regular basis, but that was only one voice, and Patrick was real, so Pete couldn’t be crazy. Right?

  
            It’s not like he would see dead people or start chattering away to figures no one else could see, it was just Patrick. And Patrick wasn’t even _bad,_ he wouldn’t tell Pete to kill anyone or set his university on fire or anything, in fact, he was helpful. Whenever Pete wasn’t sure what to say to the girl that liked him but didn’t realize he was gay, or when Pete didn’t know the answer to the question that Professor Larkin had called on him for, Patrick was always there, whispering the answers in the back of his mind, saying just the right thing. Always.

 

            And then there where the times when Pete was alone, when his depression was too much for him, pulling him towards his medicine cabinet filled to the brim with welcomed sleeping pills, enticing him to a sleep from which he would not wake, when Patrick was there, whispering that Pete would be okay, that Patrick needed him if no one else, that Pete had more to live for than he thought.

 

            " _Like what?”_ Pete would always ask, trying to get the answer he wanted to hear, not the one that Patrick would give him.

 

            And Patrick would always answer, his voice calm and clear as crystal wind, worry and caring the only emotions he would let slip through; _“Like music. Like your free-writing class. Hot ramen at two-am after finishing an assignment. Old horror movies. The Lion King.”_

 

            And Pete would feel like an idiot, but also like Patrick was right except that he was missing something, that he was always missing something. Pete had to live for Patrick.

 

            Okay, so if hearing a voice inside his head and conversing with it regularly as if it were a real person didn’t make him crazy, having the voice be his best friend may have been pushing the limit. Maybe.  
  


            Right then Pete was called back to earth by Patrick’s slightly amused, whispering voice. _“Pete.”_ It said, then repeated; _“Pete, class has been done for fifteen minutes, you need to leave before the Professor gets suspicious.”_

  
            “Hm, what?” He said out loud, gaining the attention of the last few stragglers that were just getting up to leave. “Right!” And then, _“Erm, I mean, right. Sorry Patrick.”_ The only response was Patrick’s light chuckle.

 

            “ _Pete you need to leave, you have a band rehearsal, remember? Joe’s going to kill you if you’re late again.”_ Pete cursed mentally, of course Patrick was right. He quickly grabbed the last of his notes, shoving them untidily into his messenger back and throwing it over his shoulder as he left the class.

 

            The drive to practice wasn’t bad, it never was. He had Patrick cracking jokes in his ear the whole time, which kept him in a good mood until he arrived at the apartment building.

 

            The building was tall and bleak, made of sturdy brick and occupied mostly by art students, due to the large studio-like rooms. As he got buzzed in he glanced at each door in the hallway, most painted bright colours or with abstract murals. He had always loved Joe’s apartment building and envied him for living here. Behind each door he could hear the muffled sounds of music, ranging from classical ballet to hard metal.

 

            The stairwells were too quiet though, he never liked them much, but he only had to travel one flight to get to Joe’s floor, and by the time he was inside the apartment everything was loud and perfect again.

  
            “Woah!” Joe called, pulling Pete in for one of those one-armed bro hugs that he never really understood the significance of. “Look who’s on time for once!”

 

            Pete ducked his head sheepishly. “Yeah, Patrick reminded me, otherwise I wouldn’t be.”

 

            Joe pulled away, shooting an anxious look to Tim, who bit his lip and hurriedly started tuning his bass. “Look, Pete...” Joe started, crossing his arms, “I know that you like this Patrick guy and all, but we all think you’ve gotten a bit old for imaginary friends. And, well, if this guy isn’t just made up, then I think you should go see a doctor, none of us would think any different of you.”

 

            Pete reddened with embarrassment—and anger. He had told them that he wasn’t crazy about a hundred fucking times, but had they ever believed him? No. “For the last fucking time, _I’m._ _Not. Crazy.”_ He took a step forwards, towards Joe, who backed up. “Patrick is _real_ , not just a figment of my imagination, and I get why you would think he was, but for god’s sakes, could you just _believe me this once?_ ” He already knew the answer, Pete probably wouldn’t have believed him either.

  
            _“This is weird.”_ He heard Patrick think, but it seemed mainly to himself. _“It’s always weird whenever I imagine these things. Maybe I’m crazy.”_

_  
“No!”_ Pete thought back furiously, cutting off his thought. _“Neither of us are crazy, I just have to make them see it, they just don’t—”_

 

            He stopped, realizing that he had been standing in silence, having a conversation in my head as the rest of the band watched him. He reddened again. “Fine.” He sneered, turning his back on them and starting towards the door. “You wouldn’t want your lead singer being a crazy guy, now would you?”

  
            And then he left.

 

*  *  *

 

            It was three days later and Pete was now immensely regretting walking out. What had started that morning as mild concern was now full-blown panic, and he couldn’t even ask Joe for help. He would ask Patrick, except there was one teeny-weenie setback in that plan.

  
            Patrick was the one who was missing.

  
            Pete hadn’t heard his voice all day, and I mean, it’s not like he jumped to conclusions or anything, ‘cause Patrick did go silent whenever he was sleeping, but it had been twelve hours and his voice was still absent from Pete’s mind, and that had _never_ happened before.

 

            So Pete was panicking, looking all over the news and newspapers in this area, trying to find anything on anyone named Patrick. He wasn’t sure why he was only looking for _that_ area, he just knew that Patrick had to be close. So he looked, scouring the internet and every news stand or channel, panic rising into his throat whenever he saw a name that started with “P”, but he found nothing.

 

            It was almost eleven when Tim called, his voice sounding unsure and embarrassed, as if he were doing something illegal—Or just really, really stupid.

 

            “Pete.” He said, acknowledging Pete’s grunt as a greeting, as he was too busy scouring the internet to possibly say something as “hi”, “What, um, god I feel ridiculous. The guys think I’m crazy.” Pete froze, his eyes still glued on the screen, confusion clouding his thoughts for a moment, but Tim plowed on. “What did you say that Patrick guy’s last name was? I know you mentioned it once, and-”

 

            “It’s Stump.” Pete replied immediately, cutting him off. He heard dead silence on the other line, the only sound was Tim’s breathing, now picking up in speed. “Tim, are you ok-”

 

            “A guy named Patrick Stump was in a car crash this morning, it’s on the news right now. He’s at the hospital right now, Pete, and—And he’s in critical condition.”

 

            Pete didn’t even thank him, just slammed his phone shut and bounded out of the door, stopping only to shove on a pair of converse as he went.

 

            This time the drive was terrible, thoughts of Patrick flipping through his mind. Maybe he was crazy, maybe he got the name wrong, or just saw the name somewhere and created a voice in his head to match it. That was the logical explanation, but some distant part of him was screaming in terror, some part _knew_ that it was the same Patrick, and that terrified him. And then, there was some tiny, extremely fucked up part of his mind that was thinking, _Hey, this is going to be the first time I see Patrick. I bet he’s adorable. I know he is._

 

            Pete slammed on the breaks outside the hospital, parking his car about two feet from the sidewalk but not caring about the ticket he was about to get.

 

            The next ten minutes were spent angrily trying to get the room number from the desk clerk.

 

            “I’m sorry sir, do you know Mr.Stump?"

  
            “No. I’m a friend.”

  
            “You don’t know him, but you’re a friend?”

  
            “Well we’ve never actually met, we just talk.”

  
            “What?”

  
            _“Look, can you just give me the god damn room number, please?!”_

 

            “T-two f-fifteen…” She stuttered out, looking a little shaken at his sudden outburst. Pete mumbled a thanks and jogged down the hallways until he found the room. The door was closed.

 

            He stopped outside the door, debating whether or not to go inside. What if it wasn’t him? Even worse, what if it was? What if he were dying? Or already dead, and the doctors hadn’t realized yet? He banished the thought.

 

            His heart was hammering as he tentatively pushed against the door, then even harder as he realized there was a doorknob. The door swung open and he took a step inside, eyes shut tight.

  
            “Um… Hi?” A familiar voice rang through the room, causing Pete’s heart to jump from his chest to his throat, throbbing there. He opened his eyes.

 

            Laying on a hospital bed with a gash on his left cheek and several cuts, scrapes, and bruises up his arms, was a guy. A really short guy, with blonde hair and a polite-but-confused smile stretching his pale lips. Pete’s heart throbbed again.

 

            “I-I’m Pete…” He stuttered out, hoping that would be enough of an explanation. By how Patrick’s face went pale, it was. He looked… Scared. But at the same time as if he couldn’t believe his eyes, and then comprehension darted across his features and he nodded.

  
            “I’m dead then, aren’t I?” His voice was barely above a whisper, trembling slightly. Pete was confused.

  
            “W-what? N-no, of course not. I mean, I thought you might be, but you’re not and it’s making me a lot happier than I thought it would, I mean, we’ve never actually met, right, but somehow whenever I look at you all I can think is, wow, holy shit you’re not dead and if you were I would literally _die,_ and, and” Pete cut off his own rambling, taking a few deep breaths for a moment before meeting Patrick’s eyes. “And holy shit I think I’m in love with you.”

 

            “But you aren’t _REAL_.” Patrick choked out, eyes filling with tears. That hurt. A lot. Pete opened his mouth but Patrick ignored him. “I mean, I used to pretend you were, I’d talk to that voice in my head and help him, hell I fell in love with him, but there’s no way you can be standing here in front of me and be real, so I must be dead.”

 

            Pete was irrational. And selfish. So he did the only thing he could think of to convince Patrick he was real. Also he really wanted to kiss him. So he did.

 

            The kiss was sweet but urgent, Pete’s lips pressing harshly against Patrick’s, practically forcing him to kiss back, not that he wouldn’t have had he been given the choice. When they pulled away from each other, Patrick laughed.

  
            “Well obviously I’m not in hell.” Pete would have been flattered if Patrick didn’t still think he was dead. This guy was hard to convin-

 

            “Good to see you’re awake, Mr. Stump.” Said a pleasant-sounding nurse, then stopping as she noticed Pete sitting on the edge of the hospital bed. “Oh, sorry sir, visiting hours are over, only family can stay the night.” Pete’s heart plummeted, but before he could say anything Patrick was speaking.

  
            “He’s my cousin, he can stay.”

  
            “Oh, well alright then, Sir, you’re welcome to take the couch, it’s really a bed for relatives anyways.” She smiled at Pete for a moment, then bustled over to Patrick to fiddle with his I.V. Patrick looked up at him through long dark lashes and shot him a mischievous smile. Pete’s returning grin was wide and genuine, lighting up his face.

 

            Pete was definitely _not_ crazy.


End file.
